


Amnesia

by crabapplered



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Canon Disabled Character, Gen, Memory Loss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2021-01-15 02:09:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21245768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crabapplered/pseuds/crabapplered
Summary: To sacrifice is to lose something.





	Amnesia

When he wakes and finds the world an endless void, Ignis feels a wrench of sorrow. To sacrifice is to lose, and he has lost so very much in that blaze of magic: reading and writing, fighting and driving, cooking and sewing and _walking unaided-_

His ruined eyes sting. It's a pity the kings of old didn't take that from him, too. Instead he must clench his fists, cut the meat of his palms with his nails, and suck in air through his gritted teeth so that pain and bone become a makeshift barrier against the grief threatening to disgrace him with its weakness. He knew very well he'd pay dearly for his arrogant demands of the Ring. He'd accepted that, embraced it even, because _any_ price was a bargain when Noctis' life was on the line.

To cry now would only cheapen his gesture. To cry now would only signal regret, and he does not regret. He only- He only-

He snarls even fiercer in defiance against the phantom hand of sorrow choking the breath from his throat. Noctis is alive. Noctis, with his lingering weaknesses and his hidden strength. His hidden pain. His shy smile . . .

His smile . . .

From the very first one Ignis' heart was lost. It's his earliest memory, his most precious one, and he summons it now, his talisman against the darkness that presses in on him in smothering folds. His memory has always been excellent, and so it's easy to call up the sound of King Regis' voice, low and earnest and oddly echoed in the vaulted hall of the throne room when he implores Ignis to, '-lend him a hand. As his friend, and as his brother.'

A child's determination to follow through on this request and a child's literal interpretation: the awkward thrust of Ignis' own hand forward, offered to the Prince, and the press of small, warm palms, fingers wrapping around his own as Noctis grips with both hands and-

And-

And nothing more.

Where once there was a vision as clear as carved crystal there is now . . . nothing. No curve of lips, no blue-

Blue-

He _knows_ 'blue'. He knows it's the sky and the sea and gaze of Noctis' eyes and that atrocious suit Prompto rented for that one charity ball Noctis had snuck him into and Ignis _can't remember any of that._

He can't remember the shape of Noctis' face, either, he realizes. The line of his shoulders. The way his hair musses, or the press of his cheek into cotton when he mashes his into the pillow trying to escape the light of dawn. He knows he used to find the fan of Noctis' eyelashes beautiful, the careless way he slouches about in rumpled clothing charming, and yet Ignis can't remember why because it's all disappeared.

Burnt away.


End file.
